


A Different World

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hogwarts Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-15
Updated: 2006-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-27 12:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: In a world where Hermione told Neville they should “split up” finding his toad, the chain of events of her supposed meeting with Harry and Ron in their train compartment took a drastic turn. How different was Harry’s life without Hermione Granger by his side? Maybe not quite as different as one would think. REVISED VERSION. A/U.





	A Different World

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Standard disclaimers apply

**Prologue: Reminiscing**

_“Sunshine, daisies, butter, mellow._

_Turn this stupid fat rat yellow.”_

Hermione, eleven going on twelve, heard the “incantation” through the compartment door and wondered who in the world was stupid enough to think that it could be a real spell.

She knew there were only two people in the compartment; knew that one of them was Harry Potter.  

The Boy-Who-Lived, mentioned in the books _Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century,_ looked intelligent enough from afar.  The taped glasses and lightning shaped scar certainly gave him character, but his eyes, so green—even from a distance—was both aware and innocent.  

Hermione could admit that her fascination for Harry Potter was brought from what she’d read of him, but she couldn’t very well reconcile the image of the legend painted in the books to the reality that was the unassuming _nerd_ in the train compartment. 

The other boy with Harry Potter sounded suspect.  He was a strange, red-headed gangly fellow, tall even at eleven, and he had a smudge on his face that he wouldn’t let his mother remove.  It was a most aggravating smudge and Hermione _itched_ to point out that it needed cleaning.  She _would_ tell him as soon as she summoned the gumption to barge in on them and introduce herself to the _Boy Who Lived._

She wasn’t sure what she was doing, exactly.  There was no earthly reason why she should do _this._ She had, after all, never been a very sociable person.  Back in muggle grammar school, she didn’t have any friends.  She was too smart; too weird, and to her mind, if they didn’t want her as their friend, then she didn’t want them, either.  There was a quiet, almost sad dignity to that conscious decision.  Sometimes it had made her miserable; to know that _everyone_ had been invited to this and that birthday party except her, but most of the time, when she watched the _silly children_ play their stupid games at recess while she nourished her mind with a good book, she was glad that she was smarter than they were.  A good mind, after all, was a terrible thing to waste.

So she didn’t know why, _now,_ she felt the need to _know_ this Boy.  So he was a celebrity.  Did that make her a fan?  

_No.  Surely not!_

Hermione was never a “fan”.  She was an “engaged observer” who took a “particular interest in a known individual”.  Her desired acquaintance of Harry Potter was purely academic, wasn’t it?

_It was._

But there had been something in him; something familiar; something that told her “he would understand.”  

This _Boy,_ this _enigma_ that was the stuff of legends, had a look in his emerald green eyes that she had seen so many times in the mirror; a look brought from years of being alone.  

She never had friends.  Neither did he.  Maybe they could be each other’s friends, and maybe she no longer had to be alone.  

When Neville Longbotton, that round-faced chap she had earlier seen shuffling about the train, peered into her compartment on the brink of tears asking about his missing frog, Trevor, Hermione considered ignoring him.  She had _many smart things_ to attend to and she simply had no time to do something as _silly_ as finding a missing toad.  

It was, therefore, a complete surprise when Neville, pale-faced and dazed, said that he’d inadvertently asked Harry Potter (at which point Neville had whispered the name as if saying it out loud would cause a dreadful explosion) where Trevor was.  

“I think maybe I annoyed him…” said Neville nervously.  “I didn’t realize it until after I’d spoken to him, you understand.  D’you think he’d hex me for it?”

The name had caught Hermione’s attention completely.  “Harry Pot—um, hex you?  Oh, don’t be silly.  He wouldn’t.  At least he doesn’t look like he would.  Anyway, I can help you find this toad, Neville Longbottom.  I’m Hermione Granger.  This toad of yours… you say his name is Trenton?”

“Trevor.”

“Trevor.  Right.  And where did you say Harry Potter’s compartment was?  You know, I might drop by there again.  They might have seen Trevor since you last checked…”

Neville told her the exact location of the compartment.  “I can bring you around there myself—“

Hermione thought maybe Neville’s company might make things easier on the matter of introductions, but decided, in the next few seconds, that she would do her thing alone.  

“No.  We should split up.  I can find the compart—er— _toad—_ I meant toad, of course.  _We_ have a better chance of finding the toad if we spread out.  Go on, then.  Off you go.”  She had used her bossy tone of voice, a voice no child her age has yet learned to ignore.  

Neville had scurried off having been ordered and Hermione set off to find Harry Potter’s compartment.  

So now she was standing right in front of it and listening to—probably—the strange red-headed boy with the dirty face recite a _poem,_ thinking it was a spell.  

_What. An. Idiot._

Hermione reached out, touching the handle to the compartment door.  She was about to slide it open when she heard Neville’s familiar voice. 

“Are you really going to ask him again?” he asked quietly.  “That’s _Harry Potter’s_ compartment.  I don’t think you should be ragging him…”

A tad annoyed, she tightened her grip on the handle.  “Don’t be silly, Neville, he’s not going to hex anyone for asking the same question twice!”

Her snooty tone must have been scarier to Neville than the idea of Harry Potter, because Neville himself stepped up beside her and slid open the door.  

“H-Hi!  Me again,” said Neville.  “Don’t suppose you’ve seen Trevor _now,_ have you?”

Hermione peered over Neville’s massive shoulder, catching Harry’s surprised gaze. 

Harry Potter seemed much smaller up close.  Scrawny, actually, and for goodness sake, doesn’t he know how to repair those broken glasses of his? 

The red-headed boy frowned.  “We already told you—“

“Umm…” Harry began.  

Hermione felt Neville flinch and she stifled a scowl.

_Oh, honestly!_

“Sorry…” continued Harry.  “We haven’t seen your toad—erm—“

“Neville,” Hermione cut in desperately, her heart pounding.  “He’s Neville Longbottom.  I’m Hermione Granger.”  She turned to look at Ron.  “I heard your _spell._ It’s not very good, is it?  I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me.  Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard—I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough.”

She said all this very fast, and she realized a heartbeat later that all three boys were staring at her like she had grown a second head.  

_You’re doing it again…_

Her gaze fell on Harry Potter, and the look of loneliness on his face that had driven her to this moment was _gone._ On it was amazement, or maybe horror.  She couldn’t tell.  She wasn’t quite that attuned to his facial expressions, however well she seemed to think she could read him.  

Miserably, she went on.  “Do any of you know what house you’ll be in?  I’ve been asking around and I hope I’m a Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best.  I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad… Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad.  You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

Grabbing Neville by the arm, he dragged him with her, slamming the compartment door as she went.  

Before she was out of earshot, she heard the red-headed boy speak, “Whatever house she’s in, I hope I’m not in it…”

She felt her eyes prickle.  _Oh, that horrid boy!_

Hurrying away and pulling a confused Neville with her, Hermione began to scold herself for even thinking that Hogwarts would be different.

_Nothing has changed.  It’s just a different school with a different set of people, but you’re still the bossy, know-it-all Hermione that everyone despises.  You’ll always be friendless.  Always alone._

Turning, she finally let Neville go and she hurried back to her compartment, shutting herself in so she could cry privately; quietly.  Nobody was there to offer comfort.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**One:  Present**

Harry shut his trunk, snapping the locks in place.  He was alone in the dorm, his best friend, Ron Weasley, gone ahead to the Great Hall to join Seamus and Dean for breakfast.  He wasn’t much in the mood to do anything.  They’d just buried Albus Dumbledore the day before, and while everyone had mourned his passing, he had a bitter feeling at the pit of his stomach, that yet again, no one understood just how deeply he felt the loss.  The loss of Cedric in fourth year had been bad enough, the loss of Sirius in the fifth worse.  Dumbledore…

_Dumbledore… God!  Why’d they have to take him too?_

He sat a moment on his trunk, pondering the last six years of his Hogwarts existence.  Dumbledore had been there from the very beginning, hadn’t he?  Dumbledore had been _guiding him_ these six years.  Dumbledore was, perhaps, the only reason Harry was still alive.  

It was Dumbledore, after all, who left clues to the existence of the philosopher’s stone in the castle that first year; he who got Harry and Ron past that potions test guarding the vault.  It was Dumbledore who led him to the discovery of the basilisk in the second year and mixed that polyjuice potion that enabled him and Ron to turn into Crabbe and Goyle; Dumbledore who left the time turner atop his trunk with instructions on how to use it in the third.  Harry would’ve never gotten through the rest of the Triwizards Tournament without Dumbledore’s help, especially with Ron throwing tantrums about it at the beginning, and Harry would have never gotten through the fifth year in one piece if Dumbledore hadn’t intervened many, many times… 

Of course, each and every one of those times, Harry had only _assumed_ Dumbledore had done it.  Who else would, after all?  Who else would have been so knowledgeable, would have been powerful enough to find ways to steer events to his favor?  Never mind that Dumbledore had always _denied_ his involvement in every one of those instances.  Harry knew Dumbledore was behind them, because the old wizard’s eyes would twinkle _every single time_ Harry brought it up, though why Dumbledore had to do it so indirectly, Harry hadn’t quite worked that out yet, because the great Headmaster could have just _told_ him what to do to his face without all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.  Certainly would have made many things a lot easier. 

Then again, with Dumbledore doing it on the sly, the Headmaster could very well deny his involvement to anyone who might ask questions, especially since most of these secret clues almost always led to Harry breaking _some_ kind of school rule.  

Now Dumbledore was gone, and the task ahead of him, the one where he had to _find the other horcruxes…_

Harry sighed.  The very thought of it was immensely overwhelming.  How the hell was he supposed to go about this?  Between him and Ron Weasley, he had always done the thinking, the problem being that he wasn’t that much smarter than Ron either. 

_The whole wizarding world is doomed._

Miserably, he got up from his trunk and padded out of the door and down the stairs.  

As he turned the final corner of the spiral staircase, he spied a lone figure on a window seat, her gaze staring out of the tower.  

He recognized the bushy hair and muggle clothing.  

_Hermione Granger._

She was their strange, Gryffindor classmate who never quite spoke to anyone outside of lessons and was never quite as friendly as he had always suspected she was.  Everyone thought she was bossy and a know-it-all and—as Ron had said—“A Percy in girl’s robes.”

Harry was, perhaps, was one of the few people who didn’t laugh along with everyone when they put her at the tail-end of their mildly disparaging jokes.  He had never really considered her laughable.  She was, in fact, actually rather brilliant.  She had answers to all the professor’s questions; knew where all the books in the library were and she wasn’t the least bit frightened of Snape.  

She was, in an odd way, his friend, or at least he thought so.  He wasn’t so sure anymore if she felt the same way about him.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Two: Encounters**

The first time he met Hermione Granger, it had been on the train to Hogwarts.  She had been helping Neville Longbottom find his oft-missing toad, Trevor.  Neville had appeared at their compartment a second time, this time dragging with him the curious looking eleven-year-old girl who talked like an adult.  

He remembered thinking that she was positively _amazing_ for being—well, he didn’t know, exactly.  Just that she spoke in _that way_ (Ron would later call it her “bossy voice”) and she had _learned_ all the books they had been assigned to that year.  

_Who does that?!?_ he remembered thinking.  And then he was horrified that perhaps _he_ should have learned the books too.  After all, like her, _he_ had grown up muggle.  Maybe he should have, _like her,_ tried to catch up with the rest of the wizarding kids who’d had a lifetime of a head start. 

And then, red in the face, she had said she wished she was in Gryffindor.  She said it was _the best._ She was right, of course, and he recalled those very words when he was arguing with the sorting hat about being put in Gryffindor _instead_ of Slytherin, Ron’s voice and _hers_ ringing through his thoughts.  His relief at being put in the house of the lion was a moment that would be imprinted in his mind forever.

The rest of the year was strangely bereft of her.  He would spy her in the library, and in lessons, usually alone.  She would talk to no one, and when they happened to sit by each other in class, she wouldn’t look at him, or even speak to him.  He sometimes asked her questions about theory in middle of a class discussion, and perhaps not wanting to be caught talking, she would briskly write her answers down on a small slip of parchment, complete with academic references.  That was about as much contact he had with Hermione Granger all of first year.    

**~~**

Right before his second year, he encountered Hermione Granger out of school.  He had bumped into her at Diagon Alley while he was shopping for his books.  They had, quite literally, run into one another in the middle of the street.  

She had been extremely apologetic, giggling about how much of a klutz she was.  “Honestly!  I’m so absent-minded today!  I swear I’m not always like this!”  Of course, that was until she realized who she was talking to.  The moment she knew, she had stiffened and her giggles dwindled.  

He remembered thinking that was regrettable.  Hearing her so _relaxed_ had been more pleasant than he expected.  So she _could_ laugh, and she _could_ be friendly, and he liked that she could be, because then he might find it easier to tell her, “Say, why don’t you sit with Ron and I during meals at school?  I think you’d like our company, and I think we’re at least a bit smarter than we look!”  Because really, she _seemed_ like she valued intellect among everything else.  She had to, or else she would prefer the company of people to books.  

So head to head with her in Diagon Alley, she had flashed him a polite smile and apologized again, this time in a more subdued, dignified tone.  

“It’s alright, really,” he had said.  “Nothing damaged, Hermione Granger.”

She had looked so utterly surprised that he knew her name.  He wanted to tell her that of course _he knew_ her.  She introduced herself to him before, didn’t she?  He hadn’t forgotten that meeting in the train compartment in the least!  Besides, they were in the same house, and the professors called her name all the time!  

_“Correct, Miss Granger.  Ten points for Gryffindor!”_ McGonagall would say.

_“Splendid, Hermione!”_ Flitwick would gush.  _“Your spellwork is superb!  Fifteen points for Gryffindor!”_

_“Humph, I dare say your work is passable, Granger, but you’re still an insufferable Know-It-All.  I’m giving five points to Gryffindor for the potion, but I’m taking five points away for that impossibly irritating look on your face.”_   That, from Snape, of course.  Harry had never forgiven him for that, and perhaps Hermione hadn’t, either.  

So he really couldn’t understand why she found it so amazing that he remembered her, and the bright flush that colored her face was quite a sight to see.  

She had _smiled_ a bit; an echo of her initial surprised giggle, and said, “I can fix that for you, you know.”

He hadn’t understood what she was talking about.  

Without waiting for him to ask an explanation, she pointed her wand at his glasses and enunciated, _“Occulus reparo!”_

The tape on his glasses disappeared and his spectacles looked newer than it ever had in the last twelve years.  Before he could thank her, she had left, but he never forgot that meeting in Diagon Alley.  He had, in fact, recalled it with particular fondness when he received a singing Valentine later that year.  He had asked himself whether it was in the constellation of things that someone so prim and collected as Hermione Granger would ever think about sending anonymous greeting cards to odd, bespectacled boys.  

Trying to imagine it had given him a bit of a headache and he decided right then that the idea was ridiculous, that she would never do such a silly, juvenile thing… _girls were SO weird, anyway._

Of course later, in his sixth year, he found out that the Valentine _hadn’t_ come from Hermione, and that for a split second before the one who _did_ give him the Valentine leaned over and kissed him, he realized that he was _quite_ disappointed about that fact.    

**~~**

When third year rolled around, he had watched, in avid fascination, at how Hermione Granger had stormed out of Divinations class, utterly disgusted of Madame Trelawney.  He couldn’t believe _any_ student would have the gumption to tell a teacher off, but there was Hermione, walking out in outraged intellect.  She looked more brilliant than she ever had and no one, not even Ron, could deny that the girl deserved their total respect, because Trelawney _was_ a fraud in her own way, and she was several tarot cards shy of a deck.  Hermione Granger had been the only one intelligent, and brave, enough, to tell Trelawney that to her face.  So what if Hermione _failed_ the class?  Divination contributed _nothing_ to her existence, and she had stellar marks on her other subjects, anyway, so clearly the problem wasn’t with her, but with the professor.  

After the famous walk-out, Trelawney had gone on to predict Harry’s death several more times, which had Harry very troubled.  So it was a real surprise, and admittedly a great comfort, when Hermione furtively approached him at the foot of the astronomy tower and said, “Don’t ever believe a thing that nutter says, Potter.  _Maybe_ she got one or two things right in her entire sad, pathetic seer career, but that show in class just now… ugh!  Utter nonsense.  You’ll die just like the rest of us… when you’re old and gray and have no teeth left, alright?”  It had _almost_ sounded like a promise, and Harry had wanted to joke about Hermione being a seer herself, but he didn’t think Hermione would fancy being called a diviner right then, considering the situation.

Harry had stared at her, astonished beyond understanding, and he thought maybe she was going to walk away again thinking that he didn’t want anything to do with her, but then he managed to smile before she could go, and he told her, “Thanks, Hermione.  That means a lot, coming from you.”

She had blushed again, that brilliant spray of roses on her cheeks that he was beginning to find endearing.  She was such a fascinating person, and he often wondered why everyone liked laughing at her.  He was just about to invite her to sit with them at dinner when Ron called him over urgently, telling him they _had to go._

“You better move along,” she said primly.  “Take care, Potter.  And please tell Weasleythat there’s something terribly wrong with his rat if my half-kneazle, Crookshanks, can’t stand him.  Kneazles, even half-kneazles, are excellent judges of character.  Good evening.”

Harry had watched her walk away, wondering why she _did that._ Why did she push people away?  Did she really like being left alone? 

It was the last time he talked to Hermione that year, and really, it was easy to get distracted amidst batty Divinations professors, escaped murderers, shocking revelations about his parents, hippogriffs and a clever little time turner that had appeared out of nowhere, but he remembered her parting words with sharp clarity when, later on, they discovered that Scabbers the rat was actually Peter Pettigrew, the man who killed Harry’s parents…  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Three: Friendship**

In fourth year, Harry’s name was spat out of the Goblet of Fire, rendering him eligible to participate in the Triwizards Tournament.  It was, of course, the shock of the century, especially since Harry hadn’t even attempted to drop his name in, nor had he aspired to do so.  There were many surprises that year, among which was the fact that he could claim to have formed _some_ kind of friendship with the ever elusive Hermione Granger.

It began when he was trying to find a way to get through the first task of the Triwizards Tournament.  

He had been sitting with his head in his hands, feeling so very alone and _stupid._ He was thinking that he was going to get himself killed fighting dragons, because how in the world was a fourteen-year-old kid like him supposed to do better than a bunch of other champions whose had years of schooling ahead of him?

“You look miserable, Potter,” Hermione had said, jolting him out of his wretched solace.  “Don’t worry.  You get used to ostracism when you have to put up with it long enough.”

She was standing by his table, books clutched to her chest with one arm while she held a basket of yarn and knitting needles in the other.  She was smirking, though not unkindly.

He had smiled bitterly.  “Come to tell me I suck, too?  You’re the only one who hasn’t, you know.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she joined him on the table.  “They’re all idiots.  Don’t they know that it’s impossible for a fourth year to deceive the goblet?  They should _know_ that you couldn’t possibly have done it… the fools…”

His surprise at her words was evident.  He didn’t know what to say.

She rolled her eyes at the look on his face.  “Honestly, you don’t seriously think I _believe_ you put your name in the goblet, do you?  I know you didn’t, so don’t sit there and look so surprised… what are those books you’re reading?  About dragons, are they?  Well, I can’t imagine they’d be very helpful for your first task.  What you need is a way to _get the egg,_ not fight the dragon, because heaven knows you’d _never_ be able to do _that.”_

He had, at that point, gone from surprise to complete shock.  He found himself listening to what she had to say.  Never mind that she _knew_ what the first task was.  The important thing was she seemed to know what he ought to do.  She had told him that the solution to his problem seemed obvious enough.  He needed to get an egg from a dragon, something that required speed and agility.  

“Speed and agility you have,” she said haughtily.  “You’re a seeker, aren’t you?”

“Erm—“

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah… but see, as a seeker, I usually have a broom to ride…”

“Well then, you’ll need your broom, then, won’t you?”

“Y-Yeah, but I can’t _exactly_ bring anything but my wand into the tent.  I’m not allowed to bring my broom.”

“Of course you aren’t, silly.  That would be cheating if you brought your broom with you, but if you _summoned_ it just right when you step through the tent…”

She had taught him the _accio_ spell to summon his broom, and having aced the summoning charm, his try at the first task had been a roaring success.  Amidst his victory, he had wanted to thank her; give her credit, but she was nowhere to be found.  It was as if she had hidden herself again, deliberately avoiding attention.  

It was only later in the season, when the date of the Yule ball neared, that he finally caught up with the very busy Hermione Granger, or rather… she had caught up with him.  

He had just been stumbling and bumbling his way through trying to find a way to ask Cho Chang to the dance.  It was very distressing, and when he did finally manage to spit out the proposal and Cho Chang turned him down, he later wallowed on the common room couch, staring into the fire while he pondered his pathetic existence.

So caught up was he in his own musings that he barely noticed Hermione sitting on the arm-rest at the other end of the couch.    

When he did finally see her, he observed her a moment.  She was flipping something in her hand.  It looked like a badge.  A badge for what, he couldn’t say for sure. 

She turned slightly and caught him staring.  

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said.  “I’m just warming myself a bit.  The library gets nippy.”

He had to chuckle at that.  “Studying again?”

She stiffened, and he wondered if his inadvertent tactlessness would drive her away, but her shoulders relaxed and she smiled ever so slightly.  “Yes.  What else is there, eh? For me, at least.”

Somehow, something nudged him out of his depression then, and feeling his face grow warm, he sat up and said, “Well… there’s the _ball…”_

She didn’t say anything for several seconds.  “What about the ball?”

He felt his heart pounding in his ears, much akin to the way he had felt when he was asking Cho Chang to go with him to the Yule ball.  He didn’t know why, exactly, because it wasn’t as if he was asking Hermione Granger _out._ They were just _talking,_ really.  

“Are you—erm—going to it?”

Again, she was silent before she said, “I am, actually.  I… _got asked_.  Would you believe it?”

He felt _bitterly_ disappointed and his depression increased ten fold.  Steeling his expression, he arched his eyebrow.  “Why _wouldn’t_ I believe it?”

She seemed surprised by his question.  “Well… _you know.”_

Now she was just confusing him.  “I don’t, actually.”

She rolled her eyes, as if he were being absurd.  “I’m not the most popular girl in the school, if you get what I’m saying.”

“What’s your popularity got to do with it?”

“Nothing!  The fact is I’m _not_ popular.  I’m the most _nobody_ person in school, _and_ I’m… I’m _this way.”_

_“What way?”_

“M-Muggle born, and all.  _You know…”_

His eyes widened in disbelief.  Now he understood what she was saying, and he vaguely recalled several instances where he had seen and overheard Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy passing each other in the hallway.  The names Draco called her _still_ grated at his sensibilities, and at the very least, the other Gryffindors had seen it as an affront to their housemate.  Gryffindors and Slytherins had come to blows _many_ times just because Draco publicly called Hermione a _mudblood,_ but Harry suspected that most of his housemates were more eager to fight than to defend Hermione’s honor.  They, after all, hadn’t stopped making fun of Hermione’s studiousness behind her back.  

Still, it baffled him how she could even consider taking Draco’s words to heart.  “Hermione… you don’t believe in that _tripe,_ do you?  You’re no less important than anyone else because you’re muggle born.  _My_ mum was muggle born and _she_ was the smartest witch of her age, too.  If you ask me, muggle borns seem to be better at this wizarding thing than the rest of us half and pure bloods.”

For the fourth time in his Hogwarts life, he watched Hermione Granger blush to the roots of her frizzy brown hair.  He was becoming terribly fond of it, he realized, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he kept inducing it in her.

“Thanks Pot— _Harry._ That means a lot, coming from you.”

It was the first time she had called him “Harry”.  It had always been “Harry Potter” or “Potter” or “Mr. Potter”.  Very formal.  Very proper.  Hearing her say “Harry” like that, with such gentle resignation, gave him a strange sense of accomplishment, like _finally,_ he had gotten through to the elusive and inflexible Hermione Granger.

“So…” he began, grappling to get some kind of easy conversation going.  “Who’s the lucky bloke?”

“Pardon me?”

“The one who’s taking you to the ball.”

“O-Oh!”  There she went again, blushing, and Harry was beginning to feel heady with his success.  “I-It’s just… what I mean to say is, he’s—“

Her revelation had been cut short at the appearance of Ron at the portrait door looking about as pale as Nearly Headless Nick.  

Harry had gotten distracted then, seeing as Ron looked about ready to collapse.  The poor guy had asked Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball and it had been so disastrous that Harry wasn’t sure Ron would ever live down the trauma.  

By the time Harry had regained his bearings, Hermione was gone from the common room.  On the couch was the badge she had been playing with earlier.  On its face were the letters S.P.E.W.  He hadn’t the slightest clue what it meant, but he had to wonder if it had to do with all those hats she’d been knitting lately.  He tried giving her back the badge but she went back into hiding, so he just kept it, saving it for when he could catch her again.    

Next time he saw her, it would be at the ball, and he, just like every student who had attended that ball, watched in awed silence as Hermione Granger, after having hidden herself in the library for four years, showed everyone just _what_ they’d been missing. 

She was, as Parvati had said, beautiful.  From her tamed, but nonetheless bushy brown hair, down to the delicate blue satin slippers she wore, she was a revelation.  It was as if she had discovered the answer to the mystery of life, the universe and everything, and that she was radiant from her success.  

Having caught him staring, she had given him a shy wave before Viktor Krum, Bulgarian International Quidditch team seeker and Durmstrang Triwizards champion, took her arm and led her into the ball.  

To say that Harry was in a bad mood the rest of the night was an understatement.  It was awful enough when Cho came prancing in with Cedric Diggory leading her to the dance floor, but aside from that tiny little wave Hermione gave him, she hadn’t given him much notice at all.  She seemed to have eyes only for Viktor Krum who was aggravatingly a decent dancer. 

She and Harry were friends, weren’t they?  She certainly showed an inclination to be most comfortable talking to _him_ among all their other housemates.  They’d had several encounters in the last four years.  Surely that was more than anyone could claim to make of Hermione Granger, brightest witch of their age.  

It didn’t help that Ron was grumbling murderously about Hermione fraternizing with the enemy, either.  Ron’s unprovoked swipes at her integrity only served to push Harry’s ill-enough temper. 

“What are you on about, Ron?” Harry growled as they sat miserably with their last-minute dates.  “Hermione isn’t like that at all, so I’d shut up about her if I were you.”

Ron had looked at him funny then, as if he’d lost his mind.  “Oh, you’re the expert on Hermione Granger now, are you?  Just because you’ve spoken to her a few more times than the rest of the normal population of Hogwarts put together, you think you know exactly what she is and isn’t capable of.  For all you know, she’s only being nice to you so that she could pool all that information and hand it over to her _boyfriend_ over there.”

_“Don’t_ be ridiculous, Ron.  She’s _not like that._ And Viktor Krum isn’t her boyfriend, either… I think.  _Anyway,_ the important thing is, she isn’t betraying anyone.  She’s gone to a ball with someone she likes and is having a fantastic time, is all.  At least _someone’s_ having fun in this joint.”

He realized a second too late that what he said had been immensely unkind to his and Ron’s date.  They both deserved it when Parvati and Padma walked out on them.

After the ball, students were either happily in love or struggling to forget that the ball ever happened.  Harry was in the latter category, besides which he had more triwizards tasks to overcome.  The second task had been an absolute heart-stopper.  He had only figured out _how_ to do it in the last minute, thanks to the very helpful Dobby, and besides that, Harry found himself wrestling with the moral dilemma of rescuing not only Ron, but _Hermione,_ from the bottom of the lake.  Of course, Viktor Krum saved _her…_

_The bugger…_

And driven by what the judges called “moral fiber”, he saved Gabrielle, Fleur’s sister, as well.  Oh, the praise he earned for that act of selflessness.  He remembered sitting on the dock, shivering beneath the towel as he saw Hermione Granger sparing him a smile.  She had nodded in his direction, as if to say, “Well done, Harry!”  It was only then, perhaps, he understood the real merits of this “moral fiber” thing.

Then came the third task, and it was a complete disaster.  Cedric perished under Voldemort’s _avada kedavra_ , and Harry had to face Barty Crouch, Jr. in disguise.  He survived, yet again, but the guilt of Cedric’s death clung to his conscience. 

It was during these moments of despair that Hermione Granger found him again, and talked to him.  He had been standing along one of the castle parapets, watching as the Beauxbaton carriage galloped away into the sky and the Durmstrang ship sank into the Great Lake.  The memorial for Cedric Diggory had happened only the day before and he was still melancholic about the entire thing.  

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she had said, startling him out of his solace.  “About Cedric Diggory.”

Nobody had offered him sympathies for Cedric’s death.  Why would they?  He was only a schoolmate.  He and Cedric weren’t what anybody would call the best of friends.  The only relationship he and Cedric had was a competitive one, in the Triwizards tournament, and while they had joined forces in the last task, that had only served to get Cedric killed.  There was no sympathy for Harry, really.  

He didn’t know what to say to her, then, but as if sensing his uncertainty, she went on to explain.  

“You were with him.  When V-Voldemort killed him,” she simply said. 

It was the first time he had heard anyone call Voldemort by his name.  Dumbledore certainly didn’t call him “Voldemort”.  Dumbledore referred to Voldemort as Tom.  Everyone else was just too frightened to say the Dark Lord’s name, yet here was Hermione, saying the name as bravely as she could.  That, above everything, calmed him.  

“Yeah, I was,” said Harry.  “If it hadn’t been for me—“

“It’s not your fault.  None of it’s your fault.  It’s all those others; those Death Eaters, that Barty Crouch, Jr. and that awful, awful Wormtail…”

Harry had been shocked then, that she knew all these names.  “How did you—“

“I eavesdrop.  It’s wrong, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.”

He frowned, feeling a knot in his stomach.  “You _mustn’t_ involve yourself in these things, you know.  Look what it did to Cedric!”

“But we’re all involved in it, aren’t we?  At least, we should _all_ let ourselves be involved.  If Voldemort’s back, we can’t just all sit back and watch _you_ deal with it like some bloody hero riding out in the sunset.  It’s not right, Harry.  The whole wizarding world is in this together.  Why should _you_ be the only one to fight him?  Besides, it’s only logical!  We have a bigger chance of defeating Voldemort if we fight him all together, don’t you think?”

She had been so earnest; so _certain,_ that he was at a loss for words.  He managed to smile through the knotting of his brows and he was so _very grateful_ that she was there.  

“Your _accio_ spell…” he said.  

Her eyebrow arched.  “What about it?”

“The triwizards cup… it was turned into a portkey.  That’s how Voldemort got me and Cedric.  I used the same portkey to bring us back to Hogwarts, but I had to summon it from a distance and I remembered that spell you taught me.  It saved my life.  _You_ saved my life.”

Staring for a moment, the astonished look on her face had transformed into a wan smile.  “I’m glad.  I’m glad it helped you, but I didn’t save your life.  Don’t go confusing me with something like that.  I’m just… well, I just happened to teach you a really useful spell, is all.  Listen, Harry, I have to go.  I’ve got some last minute studying to do—“

_“Studying?_ But classes are over…”

“For _next school year_ of course.  How do you think I manage to stay so ahead of everyone?  Time management, Harry, and the fifth year for me starts right about…” She fished a pocket watch from inside her robe and looked at it.  _“Now._ Besides, if I’m to be prefect when we come back to Hogwarts, I’ll need all the time I could spare.  You should try to get some studying in, yourself.  You’re going to be prefect next year, Harry.  Depend upon it.  There’s no better candidate in Gryffindor, really, unless Headmaster Dumbledore does something as stupid as appointing someone else.  Well, I’ll see you around.  Probably next September.  Or perhaps I’ll bump into you at Diagon Alley again.”

With that, she turned and headed back into the castle, leaving him utterly bewildered and amazed.  

**~~**

When, on the summer of Harry’s fifth year, Ron opened his Hogwarts letter and discovered that he had been made prefect, Harry found himself extremely annoyed.  As much as he wanted to be happy for Ron, he had, he realized, taken Hermione’s confidence of his prefect-hood to heart.  She had sounded so sure; so certain of his eligibility for it that he had been looking forward all summer to those prefect rounds he would be taking with her.  It was the only thing that had kept him sane during those days the _Daily Prophet_ ripped into his persona.  

To make matters worse, Ron _constantly complained_ about how it was _entirely possible_ that Hermione Granger would be made prefect, and that now _he_ had to put up with her whether he liked it or not.  

“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” Harry had told him, scowling.  “She’s really nice if you just give her a chance.”

Ron had pretended to retch at the thought.  Harry decided he wasn’t going to bring it up again.  

So it was a bit embarrassing when, arriving at Platform 9 and 3/4, Hermione had approached him with one of her rare smiles which he knew very few had seen.  

“Harry, you _must_ put on your prefect badge.  Like this, see?” She showed him hers.  

He had turned so red.  _She’s going to be so disappointed,_ was what he thought.  And before he could say anything, Ron came up to them, _his_ prefect badge in full display.  

“I knew it,” Ron had muttered, seeing Hermione’s badge.  “Didn’t I tell you, Harry?”

Hermione looked like she had been struck by a bludger.  Smile gone and mouth hanging wide open, she had stared at Ron as if he had _stolen_ the badge from Harry and was laying unfounded claim to it.  

“Y-You _can’t_ be!” she squeaked at Ron, her usually composed demeanor fading away at her shock.  “There’s been a mistake, is what there is!”

Ron frowned.  Harry felt the _tiniest_ bit better.  

_“You_ can’t be _prefect!”_ she said incredulously.  “You’re—You’re—!”

Ron glared at her.  “I’m what?”

She clamped her mouth shut after that, visibly struggling to regain her poise.  She found it and she raised herself haughtily, all five foot three of her, which wasn’t much compared to Ron who was at least five foot eight now.  But Hermione had always been the sort of girl who radiated dignity at a moment’s notice, and in great proportions too, if she willed it.  

“You were just never the prefect type, Weasley,” she simply said.  “I never expected it.  _Ever,_ but far be it I’d question the wisdom of Headmaster Dumbledore.  Maybe there’s something to you, after all, whatever the _hell_ it is.  You will _simply_ have to do.  Come along then.  Hurry now.  I’ve little time to lead you around like a first year.  Chup, chup!”

She turned, expecting Ron to follow. 

Ron couldn’t if he tried. He was too busy reigning in his temper.  _“Chup, chup?”_ he growled.  “Harry, did I just hear her say—“

Hermione had stopped on her tracks, looking over her shoulder at him disdainfully.  “Well, don’t just _stand_ there.  Come _on!”_

“Argh!  Kill me _now,_ Harry!”  But even Ron was not immune to Hermione’s “bossy voice”.  He followed right after her, leaving Harry to ponder the explosive possibilities of having Ron and Hermione as prefects making the rounds at Hogwarts.

Henceforth, Ron spent most of the train ride complaining about how much of a nightmare Hermione Granger was.  

Harry had managed to zone out until they reached Hogwarts and Ron found someone new to kvetch about when they reached the Great Hall.  The entire school was introduced to Dolores Umbridge, the new D.A.D.A professor, and Ron knew then who the _real_ nightmare was.  

Dolores Umbridge was a she-devil, and Hermione Granger _hated_ her.  The contempt between the two was palpable, rivaled only by Professor McGonagall’s venomous temper whenever the “High Inquisitor” was around.

It didn’t help in the least that Umbridge seemed to take a special interest in Harry and _his_ claims about Voldemort’s return.  

Amidst it all, Harry wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind when Hermione approached him one fine night and proposed that he help her form a _club_ that would teach students how to defend against the Dark Arts.

“Why are you asking _my_ help?  Shouldn’t you be talking to Ron, or something?”

“Ron?  _Ronald Weasley?_   Why on earth would I want to talk to Weasley about this?”

“Well, you’re partners, aren’t you?  Isn’t that what prefects are supposed to be?”

She had frowned then.  “That’s completely irrelevant to this club I wish to put up.  I’m asking your help, Harry, because out of everyone in our year, you’re the one who has done best in D.A.D.A.”

“And how did you figure that?  We’ve never had a _normal_ D.A.D.A. class!  Or a normal professor, for that matter…”

“Well, that’s just it, see.  In spite of the fact that you, like everyone else, lacks formal training, you managed to face Voldemort _five times_ and survived.”

“Five?  Don’t you mean _four_ times?”

“No.  I mean _five.”_ She had looked at him pointedly, or more accurately, she had looked at his _scar._

He realized then what she meant.  It still didn’t convince him to help her form her club, though, so she said that if she could do something for him, something he would really appreciate, would he promise to help her?  

Un-platonic images momentarily flashed in his mind, but he shook it off, reconsidering the offer.  He wasn’t sure what possessed him, but he accepted the deal, and she henceforth made plans with him to meet him at the Three Broomsticks, at a particular time, in the coming Hogsmeade weekend.  

So it was in the midst of all this that Cho Chang decided to hover back into his life.  

Considering his feelings for Cho, he _still_ couldn’t understand why he chose this time, out of all his irresponsible years in Hogwarts, to pursue his more _academic_ relationships.  He actually _cut his date with Cho short_ just so he could attend whatever it was Hermione had set up for him at the Three Broomsticks.  

It turned out that Hermione had arranged an interview for him with Rita Skeeter so he could tell his side of the story to the press.  He had no idea how Hermione managed to get a famous journalist to conduct an interview with him, but it seemed that whatever it was that Hermione had done, Skeeter looked a bit too wary of the younger witch.

Harry did his interview, had it put in _The Quibbler,_ and found himself utterly convinced that he owed Hermione Granger a debt of gratitude for sparing him any further ridicule from the wizarding public.  So _of course_ he had to agree to help her form her club, which they would later dub the D.A., or Dumbledore’s Army, and of course she got him to agree to _teach_ the club’s members various types of defense against the dark arts.  She even enchanted coins to signal meetings for members.

It was the oddest thing, but he did realize that he now had a _real_ friendship with her, and that he found that he liked her company as much as he liked Ron’s, though Ron still refused, on several occasions, to put up with her in a social setting.  

The rest of the year was even more revealing.  Hermione, he found, was a fierce and dependable ally.  She accompanied him into the forest to meet with Hagrid, charmed the D.A. member list to reveal any member who betrayed them (which in this case was Marietta Edgecomb), lied for him to protect him against Umbridge and lured Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest, where the High Inquisitor was forced to deal with a herd of very offended centaurs.  When he, along with several D.A. members, raided the Department of Mysteries, she went right with them, even under protest, and she fought as valiantly as everyone else.  

He had watched her fall in battle, and he had gone weak-kneed at the thought that she was dead.

When Neville told him she was alive, he had never felt so much relief.  It was what got him through the rest of the battle, and the dark prophecies and the palpable fear of death.  

Tragically, the fight later took his Godfather, Sirius Black, and it was this loss that ultimately sank him into the throes of depression.

**~~**

In the summer of his sixth year, Harry received an owl from Hermione.  He had stared at the envelope attached to Hedwig’s leg, hardly believing that Hermione was writing letters to him now.  He, out of everyone else, had seen that thoughtful, concerned side of her, but it still surprised him to see her reaching out like this.  

When he read the letter’s contents, an overwhelming feeling of comfort came over him.  She was sorry for Sirius’s death; sorry that she hadn’t been around to offer him company.  If he wanted to talk, she was available, just tell her where.  

He didn’t think twice.  He owled back, telling her to meet him in a muggle coffee shop halfway between his and her house.  

On the day of their meeting, he left as soon as he could get away from his horrible relatives, and when he got to the coffee shop, he saw that she had gotten there first.  

She looked as composed as ever.  She had her frizzy hair tied up in a neat ponytail and she wore a white, button up blouse, tucked into form fitting jeans with a thick, designer belt.  

He had thought that Hermione Granger seriously needed to loosen up, however flattering the ensemble looked on her. Nevertheless, the sheer familiarity of her character made him smile and when she saw him, the tiny smile she flashed right back did wonders to his mood.  

Over coffee, he told her what he was feeling since Sirius’s loss and she listened intently, her eyes never leaving his face.  There were two instances that he _felt_ she wanted to take his hand, just to console him better, but she hesitated, opting instead to put her hand on his arm.  

He didn’t know if it was her concern or her closeness that won him, but he felt compelled to tell her everything, so he told her about the prophecy, the one that said he had to kill Voldemort, or else Voldemort would kill _him._

He wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but something in her gaze hardened, like something in her had shut down, forcing her back to that cold, frightened girl he’d known when he watched her from afar in their first year.  

She didn’t stop listening.  She sat there, saying nothing as he talked, but her bearing had changed from her open, supportive posture to her old rigid air.  She had her hands clasped around her coffee cup, elbows symmetrically set on the table.  

He had begun to feel uneasy, and after he’d told her everything, she offered very little in response. Her words of comfort rang a bit hollow and he felt like he had called a 1-800 number to vent his problems to a stranger instead of a friend, a friend he had begun to think dearly of.  

When they said goodbye, some of her old warmth returned, telling him to take care and that if he needed someone to talk to again, all he had to do was owl her.  He was astonished beyond measure when she gave him a parting hug, then she kissed him on the cheek.    

_That_ had given him comfort, and he thought maybe that he _would_ take her up on her offer again, but he never got the chance, because soon after that, Dumbledore took him from the Dursleys and brought him along to do various “errands”.  

He was afterwards deposited to the Burrow where the Weasleys proved to be ample enough distraction from his issues, not to mention the fact that Ginny was beginning to look particularly alluring…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Four: Trust**

And so now Harry had come to the end of the sixth year.  He had just buried his mentor and friend and had resolved to take on a seemingly impossible quest.  

He watched Hermione from the foot of the stairs, a melancholic feeling simmering in his chest.  They had barely said anything to each other all year.  She seemed to have been upset with him most days, though he could only tell by her quickly averted gazes.  It didn’t help at all that Ginny, his—just recently— _ex-_ girlfriend, had been particularly catty to her.  Nor was there much opportunity for him to approach her when Cormac McLaggen seemed attached to her at the hip.

Harry wondered if she even liked McLaggen.  The bloke seemed a little too full of himself for someone as practical and no-nonsense as Hermione.  In Harry’s opinion, McLaggen and Hermione seemed so wrong for each other.  

Quietly, he made his way across the common room and sat by her, sharing the window seat.  She looked only mildly surprised.  

“Hi there,” he said.  “Wasn’t expecting to see you here at this time.”

She nodded, returning her gaze to the grounds outside.  “I attended Dumbledore’s funeral.  I sat at the back so you couldn’t have seen me.”

He observed her for another few heartbeats.  He had always thought Hermione Granger to be fanciable.  She wasn’t as gorgeous as Cho and Ginny, but he considered her attractive.  Her intelligence and her interestingly frizzy hair gave her pleasant features loads of character, and her dignified stance had always given her a sort of sophistication so ahead of all the other girls her age.  He didn’t think these were qualities blokes his age appreciated yet, else the entire male population would be stumbling over themselves trying to ask her out, but _he—_ in his humble opinion—thought that any boy should be proud to have her walking the halls with him with her arm through his.  Maybe McLaggen wasn’t as daft as Harry thought he was if he saw in Hermione what Harry had been seeing in her for years.  

 He gave her another look and saw that there were still traces of tears on her cheeks.  Somehow, that made him feel closer to her, because he knew Hermione Granger was not the kind of person who wept for just anyone, and some instinct told him that her tears were for Albus Dumbledore.  She had obviously considered Dumbledore a friend.  The thought meant a lot to him. 

“You should have joined us up front,” he said quietly.  He wanted to say that she should have joined _him._ He could have used the company of someone who felt for Dumbledore—at least to some degree—the same way he did.  

She smiled wanly.  “Maybe I should have.  I’m sorry.  I’ve just been… I haven’t been around much for anyone this past year.  I suppose it got to be a habit.”  

“I missed you this year,” he said before he could think better about saying it.  “I mean—were you… _are_ you angry at me for something? I thought—well, we went through a lot in the fifth year, and last summer.  We’re friends, aren’t we? I just wondered if I’d done something—“

“No,” she said immediately.  “It wasn’t you.  I was just preoccupied…” She blushed and he found himself desperately wishing she wasn’t thinking of McLaggen.  “I had many things on my mind, Harry.  And if I was ever upset with you, it was only because I needed to be upset with someone who… who _matters.”_

His eyes widened in disbelief.  _“I_ matter?”

The blush in her cheeks intensified.  He was quite confident she wasn’t thinking of McLaggen now.  

“O-Of course you do.  You know that—I don’t have many friends.  I keep real friendships very close to my heart and—well, you were the first real friendship I had.”

He found himself very pleased. So she _did_ consider him a friend.  He smiled.  He was the first, she said.  

_Who are the others?_ he wondered.

She was watching him with an odd expression on her face.  “Is—umm—Ron Weasley still here?”

He hadn’t expected such a question.  “He’s in the Great Hall having breakfast.  Why?”

“He hasn’t said anything to you about me, has he? Anything… very bad?”

Come to think of it, Ron hadn’t said anything bad about Hermione all year.  He just assumed Ron was too preoccupied snogging Lavender Brown to be fighting with his prefect counterpart, but then… Ron hadn’t been with Lavender for a couple of months now.  

“He hasn’t said anything, really,” said Harry.

“Oh.”

His senses tingled with an inkling.  “What _was_ he supposed to say, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She reddened again, and this time, Harry begun to wonder if Ron’s lack of disparaging comments for Hermione meant more than being preoccupied with Lavender Brown’s lips.  

“We…” she began hesitantly.  “We had a fight, sometime before Dumbledore… I unleashed conjured canaries on him because—well, he was being a git.  I just thought he deserved it, is all…”

His brows knotted unwarrantedly.  Hexing Ron with canaries, now?  That sounded like a strong reaction to whatever it was Ron had done to her.  It almost sounded like they were… _a couple._   

“Did you—did you and Ron get together—?”

“What?  N-No!  Ron and I—goodness!”

It was amazing, the relief Harry felt.  By some unconscious inclination, the thought of Ron and Hermione being a couple felt wholly unappealing.  Apart from the fact that they fought all the time, Harry thought—well, he didn’t know _what_ he was thinking yet, but it was _something_.  

“Are you joking?” she continued.  “He and I are just _friends._ If he said anything at all… we’re just _friends.”_

_Friends…_

It amazed him that Hermione could call Ron a friend at all.  The two never seemed to get along and Harry thought they hated one another, yet here was Hermione, asking about Ron and calling him her friend.  Ron certainly hadn’t said anything to him… _unless…_

It would be just like Ron to be ashamed to admit that he and Hermione were getting along famously.  

That irritated Harry.  _He_ certainly thought there was no shame in having Hermione as a friend, but Ron… 

His curiosity was killing him.  “I know this isn’t any of my business, but did Ron try to—you know—be… _you know—_ with you?”

She turned redder than ever.  “It’s not my place to say.”

_Shite,_ thought Harry in wonder.  _The bloke_ did _try, and he got turned down!  Didn’t know Ron had it in him to try for unattainable women!  Then again, he did try to ask Fleur Delacour out before.  But Ron fancying Hermione Granger!  Not that I don’t think it’s one of his more brilliant ideas, but holy hell, this is—this is—_

“Awkward,” he muttered, unsure as to why he had chosen _that_ word to describe the situation.

“What?”

“Nothing.  So Hermione… what are you doing this summer?”

She regarded him with a curious expression.  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

He had always thought she was full of surprises.  Every time he got to talking to her, she would spring something on him that would absolutely blow him away.  

“Oh?”

She nodded.  “What are _you_ planning to do this summer?”

He hesitated.  “A few… things I _have_ to do.”

“Does it have anything to do with fighting Voldemort?”

And there he was, blown away yet again.  “How did you—“

“I told you… Dumbledore was a friend.  He… used to tell me things.”

“He did?”  More and more surprising!

“Yes.  He and I… we exchange theory.  I’ve helped him do research on a certain project of his since my first year, and he… he spoke about you a lot.  He was very proud of you, Harry.”

_Good lord…_ what _the hell is going on?_ “Hermione, what are you trying to tell me?”

She didn’t flinch.  “He mentioned something before he died.  He said that I might have to help you find certain _objects;_ that I might have to forward my research efforts directly to you _soon._ I don’t know if that means he knew he was going to die, but it doesn’t matter now, does it?  It just means that from now on, I work directly with you.”

This was all swimming in his head now.  He didn’t know what to make of it.  “D-Directly?  What do you mean—I don’t—“

“It means what it means,” she said hastily.  “What I’m trying to say is, wherever it is you’re going this summer, I’m going with you.”

He was silent for a few heartbeats.  “Well— _wow._ Really?  I mean—this is—“

“I’m serious, Harry.”

“Obviously, but I—I couldn’t—what I mean to say is, this is _way beyond…_ like a bludger from _nowhere.”_ He looked back at the stairs to the boys’ dorm.  He could have sworn he had woken up.  He could have sworn he had gotten out of bed and out of dreams.  This was all so very surreal to him.  _How_ and _when_ did Hermione Granger suddenly fit into his Voldemort-infested existence?

She scowled.  “It’s not that far-fetched.  I told you before this isn’t just _your_ fight.  I think everyone should get involved.  This is my contribution.”

Harry could barely wrap his mind around the situation as of yet.  “You call this working ‘directly’ with me.  Have you ever ‘indirectly’—“

“Oh, Harry!  I was meaning to ask you, how’s Ginny doing, by the way?”  

Did she just _deliberately_ change the subject?

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to her much,” she prattled on.  “She… and you… have been very busy…”

He stared at her, a blush rising in his cheeks at the implications of her words.  

She flushed as well.  “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.  What I mean is—“

“I know what you mean,” he said dryly.  “We broke up.”

Her jaw dropped.  He didn’t know why she looked so shocked.  It wasn’t as if his relationship with Ginny was the romance of the century.  They had their moments, but it wasn’t one of those lifetime things…

“But you were so _into_ each other!” she said.  

_“Into_ each other?” responded Harry.  “Like how?  It’s not like we snogged all over the place like Lavender and Won—er— _Ron.”_

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “I mean _emotionally._ Goodness, you boys and your snog-fests.  It was disgusting, by the way, watching Won—er— _Ron_ and Lav-Lav at it.”

Harry smirked.  “It was.”

“And so the point goes… just because I didn’t see you and Ginny snogging, it doesn’t mean I didn’t know how gone you were on her.”

“Oh, and what do _you_ know about it?”

“Well, you saved Ginny from Tom Riddle.  You _had_ to have made some kind of deep, emotional connection with her because of it.”

“I saved Sirius from Azkaban.  He was important to me, but you didn’t see me pining after him in the common room, wishing I could snog him.”

She smiled slightly.  “That’s different.  You don’t like boys that way… unless you’re keeping more secrets than I thought, in which case I shall absolutely respect your preference.”

He grinned.  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m boringly straight.  I like girls… sometimes one more than others.”

“Obviously,” she said dryly.

“Sometimes more than I realize…” he muttered, flushing and pulling his gaze from her face.  It felt somewhat wrong that he had just broken up with Ginny and so soon have thoughts of Hermione running through his mind.  It seemed _inappropriate_ in some ways yet… so _right_ in others.  

It wasn’t as if Hermione had popped out of nowhere.  It was entirely possible—not the least bit far-fetched, in fact—that Hermione had always been… _a presence_ of sorts in his mind.  She was so elusive to him; maybe that served to lure him rather than put him off.  Their strange relationship always seems so precarious, so precious to him that he was constantly afraid that if he did something wrong, it would scare her away.  So he was careful; perhaps _too_ careful.

Maybe… he hadn’t given her enough credit, after all.  

In spite of all the friends he’d made throughout his Hogwarts life, in spite of the tight relationships he’d forged with Ron, or Ginny, or Remus or Sirius, Hermione was the first one who had actually told him, “We’re in this together.”  From her, they weren’t hollow words, because she _had_ always been there during his most desperate times, even if she _wasn’t actually_ present… 

_Wasn’t actually… wait a minute…_

“You miss her already,” she suddenly said. 

Her words surprised him, knocking him from his train of thought, and it occurred to him that she had completely misunderstood what he meant.  She thought he was talking about Ginny, which perhaps was just as well…

It wasn’t as if he could go on ahead and tell her that he’d been thinking… _things_ about her since his fourth year.  It seemed silly and juvenile after she had just told him she’d help him find the _horcruxes…_

_Good lord, that’s essentially what she’s telling me, isn’t it?  She’s going to help me find horcruxes!  Does she even know?_

“Hermione, how _much_ did Dumbledore tell you?” he asked quietly. 

Amazingly, she understood what he meant.  “The locket… and the _cup…_ and the r—“

“Ring.  He also told you about Gaunt’s ring, didn’t he?”

She nodded.  

“You know everything, then.”

She nodded again.  

The thoughts that had begun to unfurl before Hermione distracted him rose anew.  It struck him that very moment; something that hadn’t made sense before but made perfect and absolute sense, now.  In fact, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t figured it out sooner, and he stared at her, shocked beyond measure.

The secret notes… the clues left between the pages of his books… the potions and the magical devices and _everything!_

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he gasped.  

She arched an eyebrow.  “What?”

“Dumbledore wasn’t lying in the least when he said he had nothing to do with— _it was always you!_ And he knew it, too!  Merlin, of course he _knew!_ That _look in his eyes… holy crap!”_

“Harry, you’re scaring me.  _What_ are you talking about?”

“The polyjuice potions… the _potions task!_ And the little clues and—oh, God, the _time turner!_ Of course!  You’d show up in class all of a sudden—it’s been you all along!  Hermione, why didn’t you—“

“H-Harry, what are you—“

He sighed, slumping back against the wall wearily.  “Please don’t lie to me.  Just… _good lord!”_

She had gone very, very red and he knew, for sure, that he was right.  He couldn’t believe it, yet it was the truth, and he didn’t know what to make of it at all.  Should he be furious that she had been keeping the truth from him all this time?  Or should he be grateful?  He was, actually, but so many secrets… so many _years._ Why didn’t she say something?  Why didn’t she—

“I was afraid,” she said softly, ripping her gaze away from his.  “I told you… I’ve never had a real friend, Harry, until I met you.  So friends… _they’re so important to me._ I was afraid that if I got too close and something terrible happened to you… I’d _break too._ The notes… the secrecy… it was my way of distancing myself.  Keeping myself apart from… the emotions, but I suppose it didn’t do much good.  I still care for you, anyway, and if you—if that prophecy comes true in favor of Voldemort, I think—I think maybe I’ll go nutters.  So I’m sorry if I lied.  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.  I’m ashamed of being a coward and I think I never would have told you if it were all up to me, but I guess it was just a matter of time.  I’m so sorry, Harry.  I’m so—“

He sighed again but took her hand, cradling it between his own.  

She looked up, surprised, her glassy eyes defeating him utterly.  

“Hermione, you are the best friend anyone could ever ask for.”

Her eyes widened at that, lips parting in astonishment.  He supposed she’d never been called anyone’s best friend, ever, but she was.  How could she not be?  She’d been there for him, all this time, _never_ asking anything in return.  He only wished she had given him the opportunity to give something back.  Contrary to what she thought, she deserved to think she had a best friend, too, and he didn’t mind in the least if it was him.  He _wanted_ to be her best friend, and maybe, sometime in the future, he could aspire for more.  

_It could happen._

He smiled and she blushed, smiling back just before she looked away and squeezed his hand back.  

It felt so warm and pleasant.  

_It could happen._

But little steps at a time.  A friendship with Hermione Granger was promising to be a wonderful thing.  Why rush it?  

“I wish you’d think of me that way, too,” he said with a shy shrug.  “I promise I’m pretty good at it.  I try, at least.  I like your company.  I _always_ have.  Sometimes _I’m_ the one who wonders if you like mine.”

“Harry!” she gasped.  “Of course I like your company!  You’re—You’re the _best_ company…” She blushed very deeply.  “Sorry, that sounded silly.  It’s true, though… for me, at least.”

He felt the flush rising in his cheeks as well.  “T’wasn’t silly. Reckon it sounded really nice, to me…”

Somehow, they felt a tad awkward and they let go of one another’s hands, but Harry didn’t feel the least bit rejected.  In fact, he felt rather… _giddy_ about it.  

_It could happen._

“Erm…” he began.  “Had breakfast yet?  I was heading downstairs for it… we should go together.  That is—if you want—“

“Yes.  I’d like that.  I’m pretty hungry.”

He grinned and got up.  “Let’s go, before Ron cleans out the spread.”

She stood.  “Ron… he’s actually kind of funny, you know, when he’s not being stupid and all that.”

“I think he does that on purpose so that people don’t expect as much from him.”

“Humph.  I would _never_ pretend I was stupid.”

He laughed softly.  “You wouldn’t, would you?  And if you tried to pretend, you’d never be able to pull it off.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.”  He took her hand again, a somber intensity in his gaze in spite of the tiny smile on his lips.  “We’re not—We’re not quite done talking about all those secrets, you know.  I’m grateful for all the help you gave me. Don’t think I’m not, and I will never resent you for what you did, but I’m still wrapping my mind around all this.  It hasn’t— _exactly_ sunken in.”

“We _will_ talk about it more, Harry.  And I promise you… no more secrets.”

“No more secrets.  We’ll have plenty of time to sort things out, won’t we?”

“All summer.”

“Longer than that, I hope.”

She smiled.  “I hope so, too.”  She tugged him gently to the common room door, and together, they made their way to the Great Hall.     

**END**


End file.
